Mrs Columbo
by Sophia Hawkins
Summary: Columbo always tells people about his wife while he's out on a case, but how much of what he tells them about Mrs. Columbo is actually real? Chapter 7 is now up.
1. Chapter 1

Mrs. Columbo

A/N: This story is a bunch of little ideas of what the real home life between Columbo and his wife might be like. While Columbo and his wife had no official first names on the show, I decided to go with the flow of the common belief that the name 'Frank' is on Columbo's police badge, and taking a cue from Peter Falk's Columbo appearance at Frank Sinatra's roast, for the story his wife's name is Rose. Hope everybody enjoys!

"I don't care if you _do_ get extra credits for taking this course, I still think it's ridiculous."

"Oh come on, Frank, be a good sport."

"I'm always a good sport; look, I know we each have our own individual interests, that's what keeps us unique, like you like swimming, I like fishing, you like bowling, I like shooting pool, that's why we've always worked so well together because we do have different hobbies…but this is _just_ ridiculous."

"Hold still, don't squirm."

"I mean," Columbo said as he shifted in his chair as he felt his wife parting through his hair with her oh so delicate and yet oh so strong hands, "Feeling a person's head for lumps, to determine criminality, to say nothing of what sort of personality a person has, that's very unusual."

"Oh come on, Lieutenant Columbo, isn't that how cops used to look for crooks?"

"Yes, it was," Columbo answered, flinching slightly as he felt his wife's fingers dig against his scalp checking for lumps, "One of them anyway. There was this other method. Before they started taking fingerprints, this guy came up with the idea of measuring criminals. He figured…"

"Hold still."

"Sorry." Columbo tried holding still but he stuck his arm out and used it to gesture and emphasize as he talked, "He figured while it's very common for several guys to be the same height, same weight, same build, if you were to measure people by their neck, their wrist, their little finger, all those sorts of measurements, you'd never find two who had the exact same measurements. It was very effective for a while…until the one day when it wasn't, had a case, guy arrested for escaping a jail he'd never been to, the original guy they'd arrested was still in lockup, and they both had the exact same measurements…isn't that a kick?"

"Very, keep your head still."

"Bertillon, that was the guy's name that thought it up, that's what they called it too, the Bertillon system…it was French, you know, the guy was French, and he started his system in the French police department. Once they found out two guys could have the same measurements, _then_ they switched to collecting fingerprints to ID criminals. So then some of the criminals started looking for ways to change their fingerprints, impossible you know, but they sure tried. You know, everybody remembers John Dillinger because he used acid to try and burn off his fingerprints…but you know there was this one guy who had his fingers taped to his chest for weeks to let his chest skin grow over his fingers instead? So when he got arrested, they printed him and all they got was 10 perfectly smooth, unmarked, unidentifiable prints. Makes you wonder why his idea never caught on, it was almost completely foolproof, except he still got arrested and identified, maybe that's why."

His wife smacked his hand away that had subconsciously reached up to scratch the side of his head.

"So what do you deduce, Mrs. Columbo?" he asked.

"You must have zero personality," his wife concluded, "You don't have any lumps to feel through, you have a perfectly smooth head under all your hair."

"No kidding," Columbo said as he shifted in his chair, "Maybe it's only the criminals that have lumps on their heads. So now what're you going to do?"

"Oh, I'll figure something out for my report for my phrenology class at the night school, don't worry about that," she assured him.

He smiled at her as he asked, "You going to find another test subject to volunteer for the job?"

"Yeah, maybe my brother the next time he comes for dinner."

"I think that'd be a much better choice," Columbo nodded as he stood up from the chair, "But I have a funny feeling his head's going to be perfectly smooth too. Your brother never so much as let a parking meter expire, you won't find any criminal lumps in this family…but then again, I don't know you'll be able to find many willing volunteers _outside_ of the family either who are going to let you feel their heads for lumps to determine if they're crooks or not."

He had just started to turn around, but he turned back to her and smiled at her and said, "Mrs. Columbo, you certainly are an amazing woman."

"Oh Pshaw," she waved him off, "You always say that."

"Because you always are," he replied, "You were amazing when we first started going out, you were even more amazing when we got married, and you're even more amazing than that now. I don't know how you do it, but the way I see it, there never was a guy in this world luckier than I am. If there was a more perfect wife in the world, I wouldn't want to know her."

Mrs. Columbo just tried to keep from giggling, but he was able to spot a minor blush in her cheeks. The truth of the matter was she was a very amazing woman, in so many ways nobody else would ever know about. And in that way too, he felt like the luckiest man alive, that what made the Mrs. so special was not something he shared with the rest of the world, like it was specifically preserved and tucked away for him to witness.

"You know," he said sheepishly as he continued to gaze at his wife, "When I'm on the job and I'm talking to people, I always seem to start talking about you, I tell people about you…I know I really shouldn't, because of safety reasons, but I just can't help it, you're too good _not_ to talk about. The only thing of it is, I get the feeling they don't believe me."

She just laughed and patted his cheek and told him, "That's alright, Frank. Now come on, the lasagna should be ready."

Oh and her cooking was superb, always great, even when they first got married, and yet he would swear it had somehow gotten _better_ over the years, and he never even thought that was possible. Columbo shook his head helplessly, he just couldn't figure out how people could _not_ believe everything he said about his wife, everything about her was too incredible to just be made up. But of course, for all the things he unintentionally found himself mentioning while on a case, there were just as many things about Mrs. Columbo that he knew _not_ to disclose to anyone else, certain things he just _knew_ were better left unknown to anyone else.


	2. Chapter 2

Columbo pushed the front door open and called out, "Sweetheart, I'm home."

Mrs. Columbo came out of the kitchen wearing her cooking apron. "Dinner will be ready soon."

"Oh, terrific…after the day I've had…" Columbo took off his raincoat, hung it on a peg on the wall, managed to get past the dining room, into the living room and promptly collapsed in an easy chair, "Food sounds good."

His wife came up behind him and stroked a soft hand over the top of his head, "Poor baby," she crooned, and kissed him, "Bad day?"

"Bad case," Columbo answered, "I don't wanna bore you with the details…every cop always gets a case that just drains him…I've already had a few, you know…but this sure feels like another one coming on. I'm almost positive who the killer is," he curled his fingers on one hand into a fist, "I just don't have any way to prove it yet," and the fist uncurled, "He's smart…he's relying on that."

"He thinks he knows more than you do?" she asked him.

"He's right," Columbo told her as he kicked his feet up on an ottoman set in front of his chair and leaned back and closed his eyes for a minute, "_He_ knows how he committed the murder, I haven't got it figured out yet." He brought one hand up and rubbed directly above his eye.

"You want a drink?" Mrs. Columbo asked.

"Hmm," he hummed deep in his throat, "That _does_ sound good, sounds better than a cigar in fact."

"You _have_ had a rough day," she said to him as she headed into the kitchen.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Columbo opened his eyes.

A couple minutes later, she returned to the dining room with a cold drink in her hand. Columbo graciously accepted the glass and took a sip. "Ooh, that's just right, you always know how to get a drink _just_ right, any kind, don't matter, I don't have that kind of luck, I try mixing drinks…ehh, that's why I leave that to you when we have company over. You know what you're doing."

"Frank," his wife sat down across from him on the couch and crossed one leg over the other and looked at him point blank, "_What_ is the matter?"

He held his drink in one hand and helplessly tried gesturing with his free hand but nothing was coming across, he said simply, "It's just this case…usually by now I've got some idea of what happened, what's _not_ right, how it happened…this time I'm stuck…if I can't figure it out, and this guy gets away, well that's just going to be that, I can't let that happen."

"It'll come to you," she assured him, "It always does. Lord knows you've had some tough ones over the years."

Columbo slowly nodded, "Yeah, I guess that's true. Boy there have been times though, it was pretty obvious right away, there's always something up front that sticks out, that doesn't make sense…the little things that keep so I can't sleep at night…here, the little thing is there _is_ no little thing."

Mrs. Columbo stood up and went over to the easy chair and kissed him on top of his head and told him, "You'll get it, now come on, dinner's ready."

Columbo got up from his chair and seated himself at the dining room table where the chairs had already been pulled out and the table set. His wife disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before bringing out the main course on a platter. Columbo's eyes perked up.

"Oh! Leg of lamb roast, oh boy you sure know how to go all out for a guy," he beamed as he picked up a knife and fork.

Mrs. Columbo went back into the kitchen to bring out a chilled bottle of wine for the two of them. It was then that Columbo noticed a couple things: one, the house was unusually quiet for dinnertime, and two, only two places had been set at the table.

"Hey, where're the kids?" he asked.

"At a sleepover tonight, remember?" Mrs. Columbo said as she returned into the dining room.

"Oh that's right, they _were_ staying over tonight, weren't they?" Columbo asked, "I don't know _where_ my head is today. Gee, one of these days I'm going to come home and they're going to already be grown up and out of the house. And _then_ where'll we be?"

"Well," she said as she opened the bottle and poured them each a glass, "The way I see it, we have two options for when that happens, either one, we could another kid, or two…"

"How about if we just get a dog?" Columbo asked.

"A dog?" she repeated as she looked at him.

"Yeah you know, those animals that walk on all fours and bark," Columbo said, "I hear having a dog around the house is terrific, you're never alone, there's always somebody excited to see you, and you can get a good guard dog so you never have to worry about anybody trying to break into the place."

"Oh Frank," his wife laughed, "Nobody's tried breaking into this house since we bought the place, we don't have anything anybody wants."

"Oh I don't know about that," Columbo replied, "Take that car out there."

"I wish somebody would," she told him sarcastically.

"Hey now," he raised his hand to get her attention, "That's a great car, that's a French car, you don't see many like that anymore."

"With good reason I'm sure," she responded as she sat down across from him at the table.

"You never know," Columbo said to her, smiling, "Get an experienced car thief who knows his cars, that could be a pretty tempting target."

"We can only hope," she remarked.

Columbo ignored his wife's teasing, "I don't know, it might be a good idea to get a dog, we might not _be_ safer with one but maybe I'd _feel_ safer having one around the house for when I'm not here, and it's just you and the kids. You know, that's one thing I manage to do right. Sometimes I can slip and tell people about you, but I _never_ mention the kids, I make sure of that. As far as anybody who doesn't know us is concerned, we don't even _have_ kids."

His wife laughed and told him, "Frank, if anybody were dumb enough to try breaking into _this_ house," she pointed to herself, "_I_ can take care of them."

"Oh I know _you_ can, but I figured it'd be better if we let a _dog_ do it instead," Columbo said, "If the _dog_ bites an intruder, that's not so unusual. Ah well…maybe one day when the kids are a little older…"

* * *

Mrs. Columbo never cooked a bad meal but the leg of lamb tonight was better than he could remember any other she'd ever cooked. By the time dinner was over, Columbo found himself already feeling refreshed and renewed, and an idea came to him.

"You know, Rose," he said as he helped his wife clear the table, "There may be a way you can help me with this case."

"Oh really?" she asked, surprised, "How?"

"Well, are you still taking that speed reading course at the night school?" he asked.

She nodded as she put the dishes in the sink, "We just read through War and Peace in one week."

"Oh gee, that's fantastic," Columbo said, "I tried reading it once…come to think of it, I don't know if I ever finished it…oh well…"

"What's that got to do with your case?" she asked.

"Well you see," he told her, "The guy I think is good for it, he's a mystery writer, he's written 27 murder mysteries, you can tell he doesn't have much of an outside life, no real family, no kids, anyway...and he's given his own first editions to me to read through…now, part of me is figuring there can't _possibly_ be anything in them connected to the murder he's committed, because that would be too obvious. But 27 books…on the other hand he's probably figuring I'll give up before I get too far into them, so if there _is_ a connection, I won't find it."

His wife nodded, "That's probably what most people would do."

"Well anyway," Columbo said, "I'm figuring maybe you could take half and I could take the other half, and that way I'll _know_ half of them because I read through them myself, and maybe you could fill me in on the other half so I can at least _sound_ like I read them if he asks…and I figure with you learning how to speed read, you could probably get through your half a lot quicker than I could get through mine."

"Sure," she replied as she put the stopper in the sink to fill it up, "Sounds like fun."

"Oh I'm glad to hear that," he said, "You see, I got them out in the car…I was going to bring them in after dinner and get started on them."

"Sure," Mrs. Columbo told him as she started washing the dishes, "If it'll help you with your case, I'd be thrilled to do it."

"Oh that would help me out a lot," Columbo said, "Between you and me, I think it messes with these people when it seems I can get something done much faster than they'd think I could."

"That's part of being a good cop, Frank," she told him, "Being able to psyche people out."

"Boy I know that's true," he said as he picked up a dish towel, "You'd be surprised the things people will do, and that they'll say, when they think you're not too bright. It never ceases to amaze me, and I've seen a lot of it in this line of work."


	3. Chapter 3

All day long Columbo would work a homicide investigation, and all night he would wile away the hours sitting in a chair in the living room, reading through the murder mystery novels given to him by his latest key suspect. 27 murder mysteries, all published in less than 30 years, it blew his mind how it was even possible. Especially since reading through them in itself was no easy task. More and more often he wound up falling asleep in his chair reading. More than once he'd heard his wife calling him to bed, and he'd told her 'Just as soon as I finish this chapter', but somewhere between the end of that chapter and the start of another one, he usually wound up sound asleep where he sat.

Almost two weeks, that was how long he'd been doing this so far. Sheesh, _he_ should've signed up for a speed reading course. The latest book he'd been reading was about 500 pages long, and in spite of the fact that this was for work, that the only reason he was doing this was to look for some little clue that might lead him to the smoking gun in this murder case, he had to admit it was a very engrossing book. So much so that once again he had fallen asleep reading it, and was currently dreaming that he was reading further into it. It was a very unusual thing how a dream could feel so real, and yet you could _know_ you were dreaming, and somehow he knew he was, and somehow he also knew that while he _was_ only dreaming, he _was_ somehow in his sleep, reading actual lines from an actual upcoming chapter in the book. Boy, if he could figure out a way to do this more often…

"Frank!"

"Huh? What?" Columbo opened his eyes and realized he was slumped over in his chair again with a very heavy hardback on his lap, and his wife was standing before him dressed in her night gown and bathrobe.

"Oh, oh, it's you!" he said in half-asleep surprise as he closed the book and put it on the small inn table by his chair. "Rose, you wouldn't believe the dream I just had…"

It was then that Columbo also realized that his wife wasn't alone, there were two other people with her, in fact, one on either side of her.

"The kids wanted to say goodnight, Frank," she told him.

"Oh yeah," Columbo rubbed one eye and leaned over to kiss each of his kids goodnight. "Goodnight."

"Tell us a story, Daddy," his daughter said.

"Yeah, Dad," his son added, "Tell us a story."

"Oh…okay," he said, trying to think of one that they hadn't already heard 10 times. His concentration was thrown a bit off balance by his daughter climbing up into his lap, followed immediately by his son who commandeered the remaining side of his lap. At the rate these two were growing, he was going to need a bigger lap to keep them both on.

"What're you reading, Daddy?" his daughter asked as she reached for the book he'd discarded.

"Uh, that," he said as he grabbed it and put it back on the table, "That's for Daddy's work."

"Read it to us, Dad," his son said.

"Oh," he said, "No, that book's like the roller coaster at the amusement park." He held his arm out about four and a half feet up in the air and told them, "When you're _this_ tall, then you can read it."

His kids just laughed at their dad's silliness.

"Tell us a story, Dad," his daughter said.

"Okay," he told them, "I _think_ I can think of one."

That one even got a laugh out of Mrs. Columbo.

"Let's see," Columbo said as he tried gesturing with his hands to help tell the story, "Once upon a time there was this great big green giant, who lived in a valley, and he…"

"_Frank_," Mrs. Columbo chided.

"Oh they heard that one already? Okay," he tried again, "Once upon a time there was this policeman."

"Like you, Dad?" his daughter asked.

"Well, kind of," he answered, "And he worked a very long shift catching bad guys and putting them in jail, and came home to get some sleep…he didn't make any noise coming in, he didn't turn on any lights, because he knew his family was already in bed asleep. So he opened the front door, and took three steps in, and fell flat on his face, because he had _tripped_, over his wife's bowling ball." He saw his wife roll her eyes all the while his children giggled and shrieked.

"Well he didn't hear anybody get up from the noise," he continued, "So he decided to forget about it for the night and just go to bed, but first, he decided to stop in to the kitchen for a drink of water. And as soon as he pushed the kitchen door open and walked in, WHAM, his mother-in-law hit him on the head with a rolling pin, because she thought he was a thief."

His two kids were falling over each other laughing in hysterics at that part, and it got a little smile from him to watch them enjoy the story so much.

"Because you know that song, 'Not last night but the night before, 24 robbers came knocking at my door'."

The kids joined in with him and helped him finish, "As I ran out, they ran in and I hit them in the head with a rolling pin!"

"It seems to me," Columbo told his children, "All Ali Baba needed was a couple of women in his family with a couple of rolling pins, and they wouldn't have had to boil the 40 thieves in oil."

They continued to squeal and shriek hysterically. His wife just stood back with her hands on her hips and a twisted smile on her face as she fought hard not to laugh. Then she came up to his chair and told the kids, "Alright you two, time for bed."

Columbo exchanged a couple more greetings of 'goodnight' with his kids before they climbed down from his lap and ran off towards the stairs and up to their room.

"I can't believe you're still going on about that, Frank," she said to him.

He raised one finger and waved it at her mischievously and said to her, "I should've put it together back then, _that's_ why you're not worried about anyone breaking in here, because if your bowling ball doesn't take care of the problem, your mother would whenever she stays for the night."

"Oh come on, Frank, she didn't hit you that hard," she said dismissively.

"Oh no?" Columbo asked, "How hard _do_ you have to hit somebody to _break_ a rolling pin? After that night, I _should've_ been left with a lump on my head, you know?

Mrs. Columbo seated herself on the arm of his chair and ran her fingers through his hair and asked him, "Where _did_ she hit you?"

He pointed to a specific spot on his head and told her, "Right here."

She tried to suppress a laugh as she crooned, "Poor baby," and kissed him on the same spot.

"Hey, when're you coming to bed?" she asked him clear out of nowhere.

"Well I tell you," he said to her, "I was having this amazing dream when you woke me up. I'd been reading that book, and I dreamt I was reading it, and I'll just bet you if I flip ahead through the pages, I could _find_ the part I was reading in the dream, and it would all match."

"Oh that reminds me," Mrs. Columbo said to him, "I got some of those done that you gave me to read through."

"That's good," he said as she got up, "I've got a few finished too…at this rate I figure a couple more weeks and I'll have them all read through." He stood up and collected the ones he'd read and continued, "But I gotta tell you, so far I haven't been able to find _anything_ that could be used to tie in to the murder I think this guy committed. We can rule out anything bloody, because of the obvious there was no sign of a struggle and no _evident_ sign of foul play; nobody at the department can figure it out, the guy was found in a house, it was a nice day, the windows were open, everything seemed normal. The coroner said something about it could be some kind of poison, he don't know what kind yet, it doesn't look like something he's seen before; but this guy sure seems to know enough about poisons, just about every book of his I've read so far has some kind mentioned in it. And why not? Poison is a very open field, there are so many kinds, so many ways to use them, it just…"

While he was talking, he hadn't paid much attention to his wife leaving the room, but he _did_ notice when she returned with a tall stack of books in her hands and under her chin.

"Oh, very funny," he said humorously as she set them down on the table, "In the last couple weeks I think I managed to get through five of them, how many did you get done?"

"Ten," Mrs. Columbo answered.

Columbo shook his head helplessly and told her, "I should've signed up for that speed reading class when you took it, maybe between the two of us we'd be done already."

Mrs. Columbo took a piece of paper out of the top book and gave it to him and told him, "Here are some notes I took about each one I read, incase this guy would ask you about them. I also wrote down anything I thought might be connected to the murder. I hope it helps."

"Oh with you getting through the books this fast, that helps me a great deal," Columbo told her, "I really appreciate your help."

"What if there _isn't_ any connection in them though?" she asked.

"Even if there isn't, all the same I think it's going to throw this guy off if he thinks I managed to read through his whole collection, that it took him nearly three decades to write and publish, in just under a month. You know some of these writers are very critical kinds of people, they don't respond well to something like that. I've done a few cases where the main suspect was a mystery writer, most of them are well established, they've got a lot of titles to their names. Some of them don't care how fast you can get through their books, sometimes it's because there _is_ no connection to them and how they committed their own murder, but sometimes it bothers them. I'm not exactly sure why, but sometimes it really eats at them to think, that a lowly police lieutenant, could get through all their critically acclaimed murder mysteries in just a matter of a few weeks. This guy in particular, I could see it bothering him very much, all of his books are very long, and somewhat drawn out, I think a lot of people would give up on them long before actually finishing one, let alone the whole collection."

"That's because he never knew a pair like us," his wife responded proudly.

Columbo nodded, "And I'm for keeping it that way. But I don't think I'll take _these_ back until we get the rest of them read, you know, he gave them to me all at once, I think it'll be very fitting to return them the same way, _all_ at once."

* * *

"Frank…Frank!"

Columbo felt somebody hitting him, and simultaneously felt like he was on a trampoline going up and down, up and down. He opened his eyes and realized he wife was trying to shake him awake, but in the process was just making him bounce against the mattress. It was still dark, just the little reading light on the headboard was shining down on them. He flipped over and saw his wife was still awake reading and had the book in one hand and was trying to wake him up with the other.

"What is it, Rose?" he asked, "What's the matter?"

"How did you say this guy killed his victim?"

"Well that's just it, we're not quite sure," Columbo answered as he sat up, "We got the preliminary autopsy report back from the coroner shortly after it happened…he suspected it was some kind of poisoning but he said it would take weeks to get the full tests back, but he couldn't find any of the usual poisons up front. No cyanide, no strychnine…he _did_ mention doing some cross referencing and finding…"

"Severe scarring of the lungs, like was seen with World War I soldiers when they were hit by chlorine gas?" his wife asked anxiously.

Columbo was still half asleep but quickly woke the rest of the way up as it occurred to him what she was talking about, "Yeah…that's what he said, what'd you find?"

She held the latest book she'd been reading open for him and pointed to the page and said, "Mixing bleach with vinegar creates chlorine gas and can be fatal." She passed the book over to him and said, "Two perfectly common household cleaning items that can _never_ be mixed together, it's the perfect murder because…"

Columbo read the passage and finished for her, "If anybody ever figured out _how_ the guy died, it could be passed off as an accident since most people _don't_ know you _can't_ mix the two together. People think cleaner's cleaner and all kinds of cleaner can be mixed together to create a stronger, better cleaner." He started to put the pieces together. "If people breathe it but get into a well ventilated area, and get to a doctor in time, their lungs are burnt but they can survive it. But you put a guy in a locked room with a sink, no windows, put the two liquids together down the drain, get out quick, re-lock the door, the gas sets off, he inhales it, so much of it in so little ventilation and plenty of time, he dies, open all the doors and windows in the house, turn on the fans, rinse out the drain, over 24 hours pass before the body's found and the police are called, who would be the wiser? There wouldn't be any evidence of the poison left. No sign of foul play. No real sign of a struggle. No murder weapon…that's it!" He jumped out of bed and started getting dressed.

"Can you prove it, Frank?" his wife asked, "Can you use this to prove he's guilty?"

"No," he answered, "But now I know _how_ he did it, so _now_, I've just got to figure a way to bring this up into the conversation the next time I talk with him, and that'll get the gears grinding, and he's going to get nervous, and he's going to give himself away somewhere. And in the meantime, I can check the house where the body was found and see if it _does_ have a bleach bottle and a vinegar bottle, and if so, getting them checked for prints and find out whether or not the victims' prints are on them. Because if they're _not_, then that _proves_ somebody did it for him." He went back over to the bed and threw his arms around his wife, "Rosie, you're terrific, and it only took two weeks and 12 books to figure it out."

"Frank!" his wife called to him as he went to the closet to get his raincoat out, "Where're you going?"

"I'm going to load up all of his books that he gave me, and take them back," he told her, "We found what we're looking for, so there's no reason to keep reading the rest of them."

"Frank," Mrs. Columbo picked up the clock off the nightstand, "It's 3 o' clock in the morning, _how_ are you going to explain going to his house and waking him up at this hour?"

"Oh it's very simple," he answered as he sat down on the bed long enough to get his shoes on, "I'll just tell him that I _just_ finished reading all of his books, and I wanted to be sure and get them all back to him as soon as possible before I forgot. Because you know how I am, you know how I have a tendency to forget things, and lose things…"

As if to answer, his wife reached over to the nightstand and handed him his notepad and a brand new, freshly sharpened pencil.

"Thank you," he said as he accepted them and put them in his coat pocket, "You see? I'm always losing things, pencils…pens…matches…if I didn't have you to keep my head on straight, I don't know where I'd be."

"I can just imagine," Mrs. Columbo replied teasingly, watching her husband prance around the room like a chicken with his head cut off.

Columbo went back over to the bed, kissed his wife and told her, "Thanks again, Rose, you don't know how much this has helped me."

"You're welcome, but Frank, please, try _not_ to wake the kids up on your way out this time," she said to him.

"Oh you got it, Rose," Columbo raised his hand in a mock scout's honor gesture, "You got it, I'll be quiet."

"And I'm sure I'll be the next linebacker for the 49ers," Mrs. Columbo said to herself as she lay back down under the covers and listened to her husband's hurried footsteps downstairs and out the door, followed by the sound of his ridiculous car pulling out of the driveway and down the street. A minute passed, and for a change, she didn't hear the kids get up across the hall in response to the noise of Columbo leaving the house.

"I'll be darned," she said to herself.

And now another switch, here he was going to be wide awake for the remainder of the night trying to smoke out this murderer, and _she_ was going to go to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days before Christmas, all the _smart_ people were already done with their shopping. _Then_ there was Lieutenant Columbo.

It was late, it was dark, the house was quiet, he stuck his key in the door, turned the knob, poked his head in and called out in a half whisper, "Honey, where're the kids?"

Mrs. Columbo came towards the door and told him, "They went to bed an hour ago, where've you been?"

"I wanted to make sure they wouldn't be up when I got back," he answered as he stepped into the front hall.

"Frank," Mrs. Columbo said to him, "_Tell_ me you got their presents."

"Oh I did, I got them," Columbo said.

"Good."

"But I forgot the list they made for me," he confessed.

"Frank!"

"It's alright, I remembered what they wanted."

Mrs. Columbo let out a sigh of relief, "Good."

"Only…" Columbo hesitated and told her, "I couldn't remember who wanted what."

"Oh no, Frank."

"Oh it's okay," he assured her, "I got two of everything just to make sure."

Now she was just laughing, "Frank!"

He disappeared back out the door and came back in with a large sack from the toy store, and explained, "I got two sets of roller skates, one in her size, one in his size, and I got two catcher's mitts, and two laser guns, and two little radios, oh, but I only got _one_ doll because I'm _pretty_ sure I know who wanted that one, so then to make sure they each get the same amount of presents, and they won't think we're playing any favorites, I got him an erector set, figure he can make something with it."

"Frank, he can probably make _ten_ somethings out of it," his wife told him.

"Boy that's right, he's a bright kid, isn't he?" Columbo said as he put the sack down in the living room, "Course _she's_ pretty smart too, maybe she could put something together from this too. Boy, you know, I always had so much fun with erector sets when I was a kid, erector sets and chemistry sets."

"Frank," his wife said.

"Oh right," he said, knowing he was just about to start on another one of his ramblings, "Uh, the tree, we gotta get the tree decorated."

"Very good, Lieutenant," his wife said teasingly, "You may go to the head of the class."

"Boy," Columbo slapped himself on the cheek as he looked at the seven foot tree in its stand boosted on a decorative crate, ornamentally speaking as naked as the first day it popped out of the ground, "We should've had this done up a week ago, I don't know where my head's been."

"Well you've been busy, Frank, the kids understand," his wife said as she handed him a string of lights to untangle, "Crime doesn't take a holiday, not even at Christmastime."

"Gee I know that's right," he responded as he ran the lights in and out of loops to unknot the cord, "I think there's _more_ of it at Christmas. Of course _some_ of it you can understand, people fall on hard times, they get desperate, they'd do anything to give their kids a nice Christmas. It's not excusable but you can understand it."

"Right," his wife said.

"Of course _then_ there're others that you just can't understand whatsoever," Columbo said as he plugged the lights in and started stringing them around the tree, "People that steal Christmas ornaments, _what_ are they thinking?"

His wife just shrugged as she handed him another string of lights.

"Break into somebody's house or car and steal all their presents," Columbo shook his head, "I really think they gotta be among the lowest of the low, to do that to another family at Christmas."

Mrs. Columbo just nodded and dug through the boxes of ornaments and dug out some silver tinsel garland.

"And then you get these people, stealing money from the Christmas charities, get people setting up _fake_ charities so they can take all the money and run, that's just _low_. If people are going to steal, why don't…no," he shook his head, "I was going to say, if people are _going_ to steal at Christmastime, why don't they steal from the rich people who don't help anybody, and before there's time to catch them, use the money to buy some food and presents for the poorer people? But even that wouldn't be right."

"Well maybe not right," Mrs. Columbo said as she watched her husband stand on a chair to put the star on the top of the tree, "But definitely understandable."

"Ha, true," he responded, "Alright, now pass me up the garland."

She did. As he wrapped it around the top branches he asked down to his wife, "So, who all's coming for Christmas, do we know yet?"

"Not _yet_," Mrs. Columbo told him, "But already we're going to have to set the table for 12."

"Hmm, in that case we gotta put another leaf in the table," Columbo said, "I'll help you with that before I go to work tomorrow."

"Frank, don't you dare touch that table," his wife said to him, "It's been in my family for 30 years already, and I expect it can easily last another 30 more without you ripping the legs off of it."

The Lieutenant was nonchalant as he responded, "I was still getting used to it then. That hasn't happened since we got married."

"And as long as you don't go near the table, I know it won't happen again," his wife said teasingly.

"Well if it would make you feel better, I'll let your brother help you pull it out and set it," Columbo said.

"That would be _just_ fine, thank you," she responded.

Columbo got down off the chair and went around the tree with the garland until he got the last of it wrapped around the bottom. Then Mrs. Columbo came up with two boxes of colored glass bulbs and balls and gave one to him, and they set to work hanging the ornaments wherever they saw fit.

"You know we really ought to let the kids help with this next time," he said, "It's a lot of fun, I'm sure they'd get a kick out of it."

"Yes, we'll do that next time," Mrs. Columbo said, "Maybe next year we can get the tree earlier, you know you get a good one, and it'll last clear through to January."

"That'd be nice," he agreed, "Maybe _next_ year won't be so busy." He looked at a small angel ornament as he stuck it up on a high branch, and for a moment he was mesmerized by it.

"Frank?"

"I was just thinking," he said, "You know, working homicide, I get called out on all unnatural deaths, including suicides because we don't know at first who's who and what's murder and what's suicide…"

"Right," his wife said.

"Lot of suicides at Christmastime, it's sad," he said as he shook his head somberly, "Doesn't make any sense."

His wife stood a foot away from him, a large colored ball in her hand, but she held onto it and watched him as he spoke.

"You know, I can understand how frustrating it would be if we were not as well off as we were, if we didn't have this," he pointed to the tree, "Or those," he pointed to the presents for the kids, "Or anything…but you know something, Rosie?"

"What, Frank?" she asked, with a small smile on her face, of confidence that her husband was about to say something simply remarkable.

"We'd _still_ have each other," he said, "And that would be all that mattered to me. I hope that would be all that truly mattered to everyone else too."

Still with the colored ball in hand, Mrs. Columbo stepped over towards her husband and put her arms around him and said, "It'd be plenty for us, Frank, it'd be _more_ than enough."

Columbo took a great comfort in the embrace and returned the favor and they stayed that way for about a minute, before he finally pulled back and said to his wife, "Even so…I got you an early Christmas present I want you to open tonight." He let go of her and went over to the sack of toys and pulled out a small gift wrapped box and gave it to her.

Mrs. Columbo eyed the box suspiciously, it came with its own little ribbon and bow on it, she pulled the ribbon off and took the lid off the box and saw it was a box for jewelry. Raising the lid, by the lights on the tree, she was able to see it was a white gold and sapphire ring, _on_ a silver necklace.

"See I know any additional rings aren't very practical, especially when it's bowling night," Columbo told her, "So I got you one you can wear all day and it won't be on you finger."

"It's beautiful, Frank," his wife said as she threw her arms around him again, tighter this time, "Thank you."

He smiled and said softly to her, "Merry Christmas, dear."


	5. Chapter 5

Columbo was not generally a man of leisure, largely because his work never allowed it. But on the days he actually got off to stay at home and do what he wanted, he _still_ wasn't particularly a man of leisure, Mrs. Columbo would never hear of it; in any case she always had some project coming up that required his participation and she usually did a good job of keeping him on his toes and wearing him out before the day was through.

Holidays could be a very busy occasion too, usually the family came to visit and he had to assist in picking up the house, taking everybody's coats, helping prepare the drinks, and get the food ready when need be, though his wife generally managed that part just fine by herself. As it was here it was late Christmas morning and for once he didn't have to help her scurry around the house getting everything ready. This year the rest of the family had other relatives to go visit so they got a holiday off and could just be by themselves and do what suited them. By nature Columbo wasn't lazy, but for _this_ day, about all he wanted to do, now that they'd gotten up and everybody had unwrapped their presents and they'd had breakfast, was to just sit in his favorite chair and get a little sleep. Their kids were getting older now, but they were still up at the first crack of dawn to find out what was under the tree waiting for them. And now that all of that had already been taken care of, the kids were out putting their new toys to a field test, and Mrs. Columbo was in the kitchen getting all the trimmings ready for dinner that night. Maybe it would just be the four of them but she had still insisted on going all out for a large Christmas dinner for all of them: turkey, her homemade stuffing, sweet potato casserole, of course Columbo couldn't prove it but he had his suspicions that she was trying to fatten him up.

It wasn't a quiet day exactly, even with the windows closed he could hear the zaps of the kids' laser guns he got them as they chased each other around the house with them shooting at each other. Out of all the toys the two of them had gotten, it seemed to Columbo that the laser guns were the biggest hit of the whole mess, he wondered how long it'd take for them to switch and put on their new roller skates? Christmas in California, wonderful stuff, he remembered the cold snowy winters of New York, so a Christmas that was sunny and warm enough the kids could go outside and play with their toys and _not_ get caught in a snow bank, or even in any snow at all, he liked it, and even though their kids didn't know any different, having lived here all their lives, he knew _they_ liked it too.

As it was, he leaned back in his chair, listening but not really paying attention to the zaps of the laser guns outside, clutched in one hand was a new murder mystery book Mrs. Columbo had gotten him, draped over his neck was a new tie she'd picked out for him, and keeping his feet nice and comfortable was a new pair of argyle socks she'd given to him. He didn't know how she did it, somehow she just always knew the best stuff to pick out for presents for people, and he was no exception as far as receiving went.

Of course Mrs. Columbo could appreciate how tiring his line of work was, but that didn't mean she'd let him nod straight off without a few words first.

"I got that turkey in the oven, it'll be ready in time for dinner. Are you having a good Christmas, Frank?"

"Huh?" he opened his eyes in mid-snore and blinked a few times to get his bearings straight, "Oh yes, I'm having a wonderful time, dear, are you?"

He was able to see her better now and saw her holding up her present again and trying it out for size. "I'm having a _marvelous_ Christmas, Frank, _thank_ you for the new bowling ball."

He managed a sheepish little smile as he struggled to stay even half awake, and he explained, "See I figured this way when you go out to your bowling league, you can take one with you, and leave the other one here, so that if somebody tries breaking in while I'm not home, they can trip on it and break their neck."

"It's _perfect_, Frank," Mrs. Columbo told him as she set it back on the floor, "You really know me like a book."

"Yeah, and I can guess what kind too," Columbo replied as he held up the novel she gave him, "Though maybe I should've gotten you a new bag to go with it."

He got one jolt of a wakeup call when Mrs. Columbo decided to seat herself in her husband's lap.

"Hey," he said with a small laugh as he became more awake and alert, "Santa Claus was already here."

She just laughed and hugged him around his neck and gave him a small kiss, "Merry Christmas, Frank."

"Merry Christmas, Rose."

Outside they heard the kids shrieking and laughing as the chase continued.

"They especially seem to like their presents," she pointed out.

"Yeah, I had a feeling they'd like them," Columbo told her, "Boy, seems like only yesterday they were so small, their biggest thrill was playing with the paper and boxes off the presents. Gee it's hard to believe, one of these days I'm gonna turn around and they're gonna be all grown up and leaving us."

"That won't be anytime soon, Frank," Mrs. Columbo told him.

"Yeah, too soon all the same," he replied with a hint of melancholy in his voice, "And I'm hardly ever here to see them growing up."

"You're here all the times it counts, Frank," she said, "And that's what matters, they're always going to remember you were here for every major event in their lives, every lost tooth, every baseball game, every birthday, every Christmas…"

"I know," he nodded.

Mrs. Columbo could sense that her husband was still feeling a little blue about the whole situation so she added, "Every single time they couldn't sleep and came running to get into bed, you were always there to help me wrangle them back to their own rooms for the night. Every time there was a thunderstorm you were here to get them to calm down."

"True."

"You're a good man, Frank, and a wonderful father, and they're always going to know it," Mrs. Columbo assured him.

He turned his head to meet her gaze and he smiled at her and said, "I know you're right, still, it just feels like time's slipping away from me. Right now I'm still good to sit them on my lap and talk to them, but one of these days they're not going to be little anymore, and I won't have a lap to sit them on anymore."

Mrs. Columbo laughed and told him, "You just make sure you always have a lap for _me_ to sit on, Frank Columbo."

He got out a small chuckle and replied, "Alright. Boy, I got you, I got the kids, _this_ is what Christmas is all about, _security_, what more could a guy ever ask for?"

She hugged him again and asked him, "So what do you feel like doing now?"

"Oh not too much," he answered, "Just take it easy, maybe get about 40 winks before lunch, that's certainly overdue with my work with all the all nighters I pull." As if to emphasize his point, a loud yawn escaped him.

"Alright," his wife kissed him on the top of his head and told him, "I'll tell the kids to keep the noise down so you can rest."

"Oh no, don't do that," he told her, "They're not bothering anybody, let them play."

"You know that television set's actually working right now," his wife said, "Later do you want to watch 'It's a Wonderful Life'?"

"Hmm?" Columbo tiredly asked, "Why would I want to watch that? I'm _living_ it."


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes Columbo _really_ wished they had a dog.

As a police officer it was a basic requirement that you have an almost sixth sense, an undying, unexplainable ability to _know_ when something wasn't right, and that didn't stop just because you went home for the night. Oh no, this ability carried over very well into his home life as well, the only problem was when you finally came home after 2 in the morning and were ready to go to sleep for the night, it could be very easy to _miss_ something. He _hadn't_, he hadn't missed anything yet, but he _almost_ had; some small, unknown, unfamiliar sound coming from downstairs, like somebody moving around down there. Now, if they'd had a dog, a good guard dog, his floppy ears would've perked up at the _first_ sound and let them _all_ know there was somebody in the house who did not belong. As it was, Columbo had _just_ caught the sound while on the verge of falling asleep and being rendered dead to the world, so he got out of bed and crept over to the door, and out into the hall, and went to investigate.

First thing first, he made a detour at his kids' bedroom, and looked in to make sure that they were both still in bed asleep. They were. Good, that eliminated two possibilities, now he had to go downstairs and find out who was creeping around his house. The stairs were always tricky, it was inevitable that they would creak, depending on where he stepped. Were he a younger person he might entertain the notion of forgoing the steps entirely and sliding down the banister, one quick smooth move, but he was in no mood for that unexpected crash landing and a trip to the hospital tonight. So, trying to remember where exactly all the stairs would creak, he stepped lightly and made his way down the stairs, all the while keeping an ear out for anymore sounds on the first floor. Now he couldn't hear anything, but he knew that he _had_ heard something, and if somebody else was in this house who shouldn't be, he was going to find out.

He tiptoed through the front hall, into the dining room, made a turn at the living room, couldn't hear or see anything unusual, so he continued his search into the kitchen. Again, stepping into the doorway, everything was quiet, everything was dark, everything seemed perfectly normal. Just as he was starting to think that maybe he imagined it, he took a step in, and felt somebody grab his arm.

"Hey!"

"Do not move," a low voice told him, "I will turn on the light for you."

The lights came on and for a split-second he was blinded, but only for a split-second, which he quickly recovered from and saw that the person who ambushed him was.

"Rosie! What're you doing down here?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing, Frank," Mrs. Columbo replied as she let go of him, "And I might as well also ask what you're doing with _that_."

Columbo looked down to the object in his right hand that his wife was indicating and saw it was a baseball.

"Well?" Mrs. Columbo inquired.

"Well you see," Columbo explained, "You know how when people think there's a prowler in their house, they grab a baseball bat and go investigate?" She nodded. "Well, I was going to do that, only I couldn't remember where the kids' bats were…so then I got to thinking, you know, Rose, I was a pretty good pitcher when I was a kid and played baseball, and I figured if anybody was breaking in, I'm probably good enough that I could hit a moving target with a ball, and that I'd bean them in the head with this."

Mrs. Columbo got out a good chuckle and told her husband, "Frank Columbo, being married to you certainly is never boring. Hit a burglar in the head with a baseball?"

"Well," he shrugged, "If it works…" Then he remembered his initial question and asked his wife, "What're you doing down here anyways? I thought you were still in bed."

"I was," she told him, "Until I remembered we left the back window open and it's supposed to rain overnight."

"Oh gee that's right, that's what they said on the weather report, didn't they?" Columbo asked tiredly, "Did you get it shut?"

"Yes, Frank."

"Ah, good."

His wife looked at the baseball still in her husband's hand and had a good laugh at it all and said to him, "I guess I should be thankful you didn't get your revolver to investigate."

"Oh, Rose, you know I don't like handling that thing," Columbo told her, "You know the trouble I'd get into if my boss found out I don't even take it with me on a job?"

"I don't know _why_ you do that," she told him.

"Well I'm a pretty lucky guy," he answered, "Usually it turns out I don't even need it."

"What about when you _do_, Frank?" she asked.

"Well…I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," he said, "But you know, I am pretty lucky that way, most of these killers I investigate, it was one thing for them to kill their victims, but very few of them actually decide to push their luck killing a homicide lieutenant, some of them are funny like that. See they know they'd never be able to write anything happening to me off as just being a coincidence, it's one thing if they decide to kill more than one person, because somebody saw something or knows something pertaining to the first murder…and they're very slick, they get it to look like a suicide, an accident, anything…but…" he shook his head and grinned, "They know they wouldn't have the same kin of luck with me. Anything happens to me, people _are_ gonna ask questions, and they'd probably be asking a lot more than I do."

"That would be some kind of record, Frank," his wife told him.

Columbo had a good laugh and responded, "I suppose that's true. I guess I _do_ ask a lot of questions…you know, it's very interesting…questioning these people that I _know_ killed somebody, but I just haven't got the evidence to prove it yet, it just feels like a big chess game. I know that if I wait long enough, if I'm patient enough, and if I act persistent enough…eventually you give these guys enough rope to hang themselves. It's _just_ like chess, you have to know _your_ moves, you have to be able to anticipate _their_ moves, and you have to make your moves accordingly so they will unknowingly put themselves in a bad position that they're going to lose, only they don't realize it until it's too late. And you know, sometimes when I go back to talk to them again…it gets _very_ hard sometimes to keep a straight face, you know, Rose? I mean I _know_ what they think of me, which is not much, so it bothers them I'm staying so close to the case, hanging onto every little detail…and _they_ seem to have _such_ a time trying to keep _themselves_ pulled together, and I gotta act _very_ serious about it all, and it _is_ very serious; but I tell you, sometimes just waiting for them to back themselves in a corner saying the wrong thing, it's all I can do not to start laughing, because I can just tell how frustrated they're getting, and usually they know there's not much they can do about it, except get mad _at_ me, which still doesn't get them anywhere."

"I know, Frank, but I still wish you'd carry your revolver," Mrs. Columbo told him, "One of these days you _are_ going to go up against somebody dangerous."

"Oh I have no doubt of that," he assured her, "But that's why I pay so much attention to all the little details, I pay attention to my surroundings…you see, I'm always looking towards the floor…sometimes it's because I lose my pen but a lot of times it's because I'm looking to make sure they haven't tried anything funny, you know set a booby trap or anything like that. _Nobody_ looks to the floors, everybody stays on eye contact, well that's a good way to wind up tripped up in something, so I'm always checking the floors, telling people I lost my pen, I need a match, you know. I also pay attention to what's around me, if these people offer me anything to eat, or anything to drink, I know to be careful. If they try getting me alone somewhere, I watch to see if there's a way out, or any chance a third person could come into the room. It's all the little things like that that I'm always watching, so I feel very safe being in these people's presences, in spite of knowing what they've done and what they're capable of."

The truth of the matter was that the most action Columbo's service revolver ever saw since he joined the police force _hadn't_ come from him, but instead from _Mrs._ Columbo. Years ago when she was pregnant, towards the end the doctor ordered her on bedrest, and in the beginning she hadn't minded so much because she kept herself busy reading, or learning to knit, or working with modeling clay. After a while though she'd gotten tired of all that, so they'd looked for some new ways to keep her occupied until the baby came. One day an idea came to Mrs. Columbo and she had her brother make some wax bullets, and she'd borrowed Columbo's revolver, and he and her brother had set up little targets in the room for her to use for target practice. For wax, she'd gotten pretty good at hitting the targets, and it kept her busy for almost a whole week up to the birth; all the same, even _with_ just wax bullets, Columbo had still been slightly unnerved by her using it, though he didn't say anything, she was careful and everything turned out fine. After that though, he'd largely retired it to the top shelf in the closet, only taking it out when he absolutely had to; he kept it out of reach and out of sight of the kids for years, for the first few years of their lives they weren't even aware their father _had_ a gun. He knew though that if too much word got out that he never had it with him, he was likely to get in trouble with his boss at the department, so as far as his kids knew now, when he went out to work, he had it with him, they just never saw it. Fortunately they weren't very curious about it either, and also fortunately neither were most of the people he had to investigate.

In California there was a lot of crime, in New York when he first became a cop, there had also been a lot of crime, also plenty of gun related crimes. It wasn't that Columbo had anything against guns, he just didn't like them. On the job he saw plenty of what they could do, for _both_ sides, and he knew plenty of fellow officers who unfortunately _had_ to use theirs, and were haunted by those memories the rest of their lives. He never wanted that to happen to him, so, in spite of the danger he was constantly putting himself in, any time he could get away with it, he'd go out on the job _without_ his gun, something that became much easier when he made the step up to lieutenant and didn't have to wear a uniform anymore. People look for guns on uniformed cops but plainclothes ones of a higher rank, everybody just assumed you had it concealed somewhere, which helped him out a lot.

"Come on," Mrs. Columbo told him, "Let's go back to bed."

It sounded like a very good idea to him. He knew the risks he was constantly taking on the job, and he was very thankful they always paid off, so that at the end of every day, he was able to come back to his home and family. Security, a guy couldn't ask for much more than this.


	7. Chapter 7

"Come on, Frank, you're not trying hard enough."

Columbo pulled himself up into a sitting position on the living room floor and told his wife, "I don't remember working out being this hard when I joined the academy."

He was covered in sweat, he was already out of breath, and he'd only been engaging in his wife's morning TV workout for 10 minutes.

Even an amazing woman like Mrs. Columbo was not above a little self-consciousness. Lately he'd noticed she started feeling more insecure about her figure, she thought she was getting fat, and in her own words since she knew she wasn't pregnant again, it was not acceptable. He had to admit, he knew his wife's figure very well, that happened when you were married as long as the two of them were. He knew she'd been putting on a _little_ weight, not much, just a few extra pounds, it wasn't surprising. Mrs. Columbo was a very accomplished cook, every dish she made was terrific: lasagna, meatballs, sausage and peppers, eggplant parmesan, fettuccine Alfredo, ziti, manicotti, chicken cacciatore, if you could name it she could make it. Lately he'd noticed she'd been making more, and subsequently eating more of it than she normally did.

Of course insofar as Columbo could tell, Mrs. Columbo's recent insecurity wasn't so much an actual thing, granted, he'd never want a skinny wife to begin with, Mrs. Columbo had never exactly been skinny, but the way he saw it, it wasn't so much she'd actually put on more weight from extra eating, as it was just that she'd recently finished her night school classes, and so lately her days seemed to have slowed down, so all she was aware of actually doing lately _was_ eating, and as far as he could guess, it made her _feel_ more sluggish and overweight. He was going to suggest she needed a new hobby to fill the time so she wouldn't have time to _think_ about being overweight, but before he could find a diplomatic way of doing that, she seemed to find the answer herself. She'd discovered these early morning TV exercise programs, and so every morning he now found her here on the living room floor doing all sorts of things with her body he never even knew possible. Having this to fill the mornings made her days fuller again, so she had less time to cook and eat all day, and from a psychological standpoint it was brilliant because now she was too busy to feel fat anymore. And now Mrs. Columbo was feeling happy again, which in turn made Columbo feel happy, but then Mrs. Columbo got the idea he should exercise with her, which made Columbo feel every muscle in his body pulling itself out of whack.

"Come on, Frank, now the leg exercises."

"I don't—okay," he complied and joined his wife on the floor and tried to mimic her laying on her side, upper body slightly pulled up, leaning on one elbow, legs straight out.

"Okay, now we start small," his wife told him, raising her top leg a few inches above the other, and lowering, and raising again, and lowering again.

Columbo tried to do what she did and he told her, "Hey, this one's not so bad."

After a few repetitions of that, Mrs. Columbo told him, "Alright, now we go higher," and raised her top leg 90 degrees above the bottom one.

"Oh!" Columbo looked shocked, "Rosie, I don't think my legs have _ever_ been that far apart from each other, _ever_."

"Come on, Frank, give it a try," his wife told him.

"Uh…alright," he said uncertainly.

He gave it a try, and surprisingly found he could get one leg higher above the other than he would've guessed, but still nowhere near as high as Mrs. Columbo was able to get hers.

"So…this is what you do every morning?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she answered, "They switch the routine around every episode."

"I see," Columbo replied.

After switching sides and repeating, Columbo was relieved to learn they would be switching over to another exercise now.

"Now," his wife told him, "You lay flat on the ground facedown." They did, and she added, "Now you raise your leg behind you as high as you can."

He tried it, but it didn't go over so well. "You said you lay _flat_ on the floor and raise it behind you?"

"That's right, Frank."

"Uh huh," he looked back at his leg and tried to figure out what he was clearly doing wrong. He looked over at Mrs. Columbo and saw she was able to do it with notably more ease.

"Now the other side," she told him.

"Alright, but I don't think it'll work any better," he replied.

He tried, and it was definitely hard, and he was very relieved when that one was over.

"What next?" he asked.

"Now you get up on your hands and knees like this," Mrs. Columbo demonstrated.

"Okay," he followed suit, "Now what?"

"Now you draw your knee into your chest like this," she demonstrated, "Then reach your leg back high in the air like this."

"What kind of sadists do they have running these programs?" Columbo asked.

"Just do it, Frank," Mrs. Columbo told him with a knowing smirk.

Again, he tried.

"Rose, I don't think my knees were meant to reach my chest."

"Just pull it in as far as you can then, Frank."

As it turned out, as far as he could, proved not to be too far at all, and once again he watched the way his wife extended her leg high in the air behind her body, and he knew he'd _never_ make it, still he tried. Sheesh, no _wonder_ she didn't feel fat anymore, doing this kind of stuff every day would make _anybody_ feel like they were losing something, he personally knew he was losing something _very_ quickly, his breath.

"I think I'll sit this one out, Rose," he told his wife as he crawled over by his chair and sat on the floor, "You keep working out, and I'll watch you do it."

Mrs. Columbo laughed and reminded her husband, "Watching women doesn't count as a workout."

"Oh I don't know about that," he replied, "I think I could get a pretty good workout watching _you_."

He watched as Mrs. Columbo rolled onto her back and raised her legs high into the air and did a series of stretching exercises.

"Yes sir," Columbo smirked, "I think my heart's got all the pumping it can take watching _you_ do this stuff."

"Very funny, Frank."

After a couple minutes, Columbo watched as Mrs. Columbo resumed the hands and knees position and raised one leg up and off to the side and extended it up as far as she could, then lower it back in place, then lift it off to the side again, and back.

"And then there are times that just watching you could give _me_ pulled muscles," he added.

His comment was so random and spontaneous, it caught Mrs. Columbo off guard and she laughed and almost lost her balance and fell flat to the floor.

"Frank!"

"What, if you miss one you don't have to start all over again, do you?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Mrs. Columbo laid flat on the floor, then raised her legs up behind her, reached back with her arms, grabbed her feet, and rocked back and forth on her stomach.

"Whoa, hey! When did _that_ happen?" Columbo asked, "When did you start doing that? Is that even humanly possible?"

Mrs. Columbo got out a short laugh and told her husband, "You should've been doing this with me weeks ago, Frank, then you would've known when it started."

"Boy would you look at that?" Columbo said in awe as he watched her, "You look like those people in the circus, the ones that bend their bodies over each other, what do they call them?"

"Contortionists."

"Right, that's what it is."

She laughed again and told him, "Don't be getting any ideas, Frank, I'm not _that_ flexible."

"Well I'm glad to hear that," he said, "I wouldn't know _what_ to do with you then. Hey listen," he crawled over towards her on the floor and looked at her and said to her, "Promise me something, would you?"

"What's that, Frank?" Mrs. Columbo asked as she let go of her feet and resumed laying flat on the floor.

"If you like doing this stuff, then that's one thing," he told her, "But I don't want you getting too skinny, I wouldn't know _what_ to do with a skinny wife, you know?"

That comment got a giggle from Mrs. Columbo and she told her husband, "Frank, I'm doing this for more than just that you know."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, I'm doing this so in 20 years I'll still be in good shape, not one of those decrepit old ladies bent over a walker."

"What're you talking about?" Columbo asked disbelievingly, "You won't be anywhere near old in 20 years, you won't even begin to be _near_ old for another 40 years."

"Oh flattery will get you everywhere, Frank," she responded coyly.

He smiled at her in return, and reached over, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

"That's also why I wish _you'd_ start exercising, Frank," she told him, "I want you to be around for a long time with me."

"Hey it sounds like a great plan, but I'll tell you Rosie, this early TV stuff just doesn't work for me," he said as he stood up, "I think I'll just stick to what I currently do."

"You don't swim, you won't bowl, what _is_ it you currently do for exercise, Frank?" Mrs. Columbo inquired.

He looked at her and answered, "I chase bad guys."

"Very funny, Frank," Mrs. Columbo replied.

"Hey, don't knock it," he told her, "It keeps me on my feet all day. In fact, I think this job keeps me on the run more than when I was a uniform cop on the beat 15 years ago."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Trying to get back in the swing of this story, so please bear with me if the writing's a bit off for Columbo.

Mrs. Columbo loved to bowl. In fact she loved to bowl _very_ much. It was easily her favorite pastime and had been ever since Columbo first knew her. Over the years, she had constantly tried to get her husband to take up an interest in the game so that they might have something more in common than they currently did. But Columbo insisted over and over, politely reminding his wife that he didn't care for bowling, he was a pool man; and he never tried to get her into shooting pool, because he respected they had their own individual interests, and he thought that was a sign of a healthy marriage.

There was one bowling alley in particular in all of greater Los Angeles that Mrs. Columbo was preferential to, it was where she joined the ladies' bowling league, and it was where she went every week to knock down pins. And then she came home one night and told Columbo that the man who owned the bowling alley was having some problems, problems a police officer would be able to assist with. She had confided this in him as they were getting ready for bed, and Columbo had told her that he would go and see the man first thing in the morning. But Mrs. Columbo had been adamant that he couldn't do that.

"Why not?" he asked her.

"Because they're doing repairs to the alley and they're going to be closed tomorrow," she told him, "They're closing down two days a week so they can focus on fixing the place up without having to do it around the customers bowling."

Columbo had had a long day and was already near half asleep, so it took him a couple of minutes to make sense of what his wife had said, and when it finally computed he responded, "Well, I suppose that's one way to do it. Uh, okay, I'll pop in and talk to the manager first thing the day _after_ tomorrow."

"You can't do that either," Mrs. Columbo told him.

Even tired, Columbo did a double take, "How's that?"

"They're not open first thing in the morning," she pointed out, "They don't open until noon."

"Okay, let's try this again," he said to her, "What _would_ be a good time for me to go down there and speak to the manager?"

"I was thinking that afternoon when I go down there when they first open after lunch, you can come with me," she grinned mischievously, "And I can show you off to the other women on the league."

"Oh!" Columbo choked on a surprised laugh, then lightly he replied, "Rose, you flatter me."

"Of course," his wife added, "You could always make it a little easier by _not_ wearing that coat in."

"Aw Rosie, you know that coat goes wherever I go," he insisted.

"I know," she replied, "That's the problem."

"Hey now, that's a great coat," Columbo told her, "I've had that coat for almost seven years."

"I _know_," Mrs. Columbo responded, "That's why I keep trying to get you a new one."

He just shrugged and asked his wife, "Why fix something that's not broken?"

"Frank, _broken_ is in the eye of the beholder," she told him.

"Well…" he tried, "It's not broken to _me_, and that's good enough for me."

Mrs. Columbo reached behind her and swatted him with her pillow, "Frank, sometimes you are impossible."

"That's what my boss keeps telling me too," he said.

* * *

Mrs. Columbo took her car to the bowling alley, and Columbo took his Peugeot so that once he left the alley, he could get back to work. When they pulled in, he saw the parking lot was still empty, there were only a couple other cars there and he'd bet anything they belonged to the people working there.

"Looks like we're early," he told his wife as they got out of their cars.

"The girls will be along soon," she assured him, "Come on."

"Okay," he replied, "But I still don't get why you want _me_ to handle this, you know I'm in homicide and _this_ doesn't look like a homicide to me."

"Just talk to him, Frank," his wife said as they headed to the entrance, "You can talk to him about it."

They entered the bowling alley and Columbo looked and saw ten empty lanes, and saw a young woman working behind the counter where people rented their shoes. He went over to her and subtly flashed his badge and told her, "Uh, excuse me, my name's Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD, homicide, I'm here to see the manager, Mr. Baxter."

The young woman, a blue eyed blonde who couldn't have been much older than 20, widened her eyes at him and repeated in disbelief, "H…homicide?"

"Oh I'm sorry," Columbo told her, "You see I'm not here _for_ a homicide, that's just my division, but I wanted to speak with your manager."

Just then, Mrs. Columbo came up behind him and told the girl, "It's alright, Gladys, I asked him to come down."

The young woman blinked a couple times and then put it together, "Oh…oh! Mrs. Columbo, of course…Mr. Baxter's in his office just over there," she pointed to a door off the side.

Columbo looked that way, and told her, "Okay, thank you, and I'm sorry about the confusion."

On his way he turned and looked back and watched as the woman automatically handed a pair of shoes to Mrs. Columbo, without even asking her size; apparently his wife had been bowling here long enough that everybody _knew_ her size. In fact, Columbo wondered if they kept that pair of shoes specifically reserved for her? Funny that a woman who had been bowling so long, and had been on a bowling league for as many years as Rose had, still rented her shoes instead of just outright buying a pair, they would've paid for themselves before the kids had even been born. Hmm, that might be an idea for their next anniversary.

* * *

Mr. Baxter was an older man who looked like he'd been at this business for a while and still had a few years left before retiring. His demeanor also told the lieutenant that he was a man who didn't like trouble and had been getting more than his fair share lately. After brief introductions, Mr. Baxter proceeded to tell Columbo about problems he'd been having the last couple of weeks.

"First we had to get the glass doors replaced," he pointed to the front, "Somebody busted them, next day we came and all the garbage cans from the block were piled up in front of the doors. Next thing we found, somebody spray painted obscene things all over the walls outside. I don't know _who's_ doing it, I don't know _why_ they're doing it, but at this rate they're going to put me out of business."

Columbo got the grand tour of the place to see where all the damage had taken place, and when it was over, he told the man, "Mr. Baxter, I'm in homicide, this isn't my area, but I can put the word along to the men who work that department, I give you my word as a lieutenant they'll find out who's doing it. A guy that does something like this, he's not crafty enough to stay under the radar, he's going to get a kick out of doing something like this and he's going to start bragging to somebody, and when he does, _then_ they'll have him."

This seemed to be of some hope to Mr. Baxter and he told Columbo, "I really appreciate it, Mr. Columbo, I've been running this place for 15 years and I haven't had anything like this happen before."

"I'm sure the boys at the department will get this whole thing straightened out, Mr. Baxter," Columbo assured the man as he put his hands in his coat pockets and headed back to see how Mrs. Columbo was doing.

Mrs. Columbo watched her ball roll down the lane and knock over the nine-pin which fell to the side and consequently knocked down the three-pin, giving her a spare. She turned and saw Columbo heading her way and she asked him, "Well?"

Columbo stopped and told his wife, "Well I talked to him…I'm going to pass the word along to the right guys in the right department who can handle this."

"That's all I asked," she said.

"I'll see you later, Rosie," he said as he turned and headed for the door.

The automatic pinsetter had just stood all ten pins up again ready for the next frame, and Mrs. Columbo called to her husband, "Hey Frank, why don't you try one?"

"Hmm?" Columbo turned around, and pointed to the lane, "You mean _me_ try to bowl one?"

"Yeah," she answered.

"Oh, I couldn't do that," he shook his head, and lifted one foot, "See? Wrong shoes."

"You're a cop, nobody's going to say anything," his wife insisted.

"What?" Columbo asked, "And get preferential treatment?" He shook his head again, "Oh no, I couldn't do that, it wouldn't be fair."

"One frame, for crying out loud, Frank," she was adamant.

Columbo could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with this argument, so he gave in, and headed over to his wife in the number 7 lane, and took her bowling ball and tried to get his fingers in without getting them stuck.

"You know," he pointed behind him with his free hand, "The ball's most likely going to go _that_ way, you know that, Rosie?"

"Just try it, Frank," she insisted.

"Okay," Columbo headed over to the line that cut off how far the bowler could walk, and drew the ball back, and moved it forward but didn't let go of it yet, then drew it back again, and forth again, and back…

"Frank, will you come on already?" Mrs. Columbo asked, "Just roll it."

Columbo sucked in a breath and told his wife, "Okay…" he took a step back, drew the ball back, took a step forward, lunged his arm forward and let go of the ball, and it slowly went spinning down the lane.

"Okay," he turned to his wife and said lightly, "Thank you," and headed for the exit.

Behind him, Columbo heard a loud clatter that told him something impressive had just happened. Nah, couldn't be. He turned around and saw all ten pins were scattered on the end of the lane. He turned to his wife confusedly and asked her, "Did I do that?"

"A perfect strike, Frank," Mrs. Columbo told him, visibly impressed with her husband's skill, "You'd be a natural at this game."

Columbo looked back down the lane and saw the pins scattered before the machine grabbed them all and set them up again.

"Huh…go figure," he said. He turned to his wife and told her, "But I still think I'll stick with shooting pool."


End file.
